by
Tora
I was just thinking because today is a rainy day and that’s really depressing because there used to be snow and now all there is left is kind of a cold, lumpy slush that’s salty and slippery with blackened corners of pollution spread around over the rotten leaves. And I’m thinking like – what’s this supposed to mean, right? I mean, I thought I lived in Norway for a reason, isn’t there supposed to be snow? I mean what is going on? There has to be some kind of guarantee. Like when I was born it came with my birth certificate like “You know hi and thanks for coming out, this is Norway all very nice, hope you were born with skis on because that’s how we shake it here. On your arrival we’ll guarantee you a lifetime of white Christmases, expensive public transport, no drinking liquor ‘til you’re at least 20 and when the first snow falls everybody will panic as if it hasn’t been snowing here for the last ten gazillion years. Yours truly, the Norwegian government”. I rummaged through all my drawers and pulled out everything I could find but it was all just drawings of happy homes and snowmen and other things I remember jotting down carelessly with a bit of oil paint on canvas as a mere infant and I thought – man. Dude, they have removed the evidence!
Having long legs is a great thing, really, I pride myself on my legs. Whenever I’m buying trousers I feel like I’m on a treasure hunt, or, a desperately hungry grandparent looking for his teeth. It’s like looking for a trampoline in a mine shaft, yeah? It’s basically not happening. You never really find the things you’re searching for. Or, actually that’s not true, I do find trousers that fit, even though they would only fit ideally on a giraffe and I have to get them from a friend at the zoo – it’s not a problem. And having long legs is really nice, I mean if you’re swimming from a sunken ship after a terrible storm you’ll reach shore faster, wont you? Yeah, because you hit the bottom sooner. It’s fantastic. And you can use them to stake for corpses whenever there’s a search on for a dead body in the river. When someone’s gaping, all purple and swollen, lying on the bottom with all the fishes – it’s hard to evade a pair of pin-point precision stalks as those I carry with me all the time.
Well, stalks wouldn’t really be correct word here, that makes it sound as if my legs are made of twigs, which they are not. They’re more like five elevator cables wound together to a bouquet of steel – though not as impressive as it sounds, but as thick as it sounds. You have to keep your career options open these days I heard, and it’s great to have natural assets like skin stilts to aid you then. You out of a job, what do you do? “Need a lift? Need an oil-rig? Look! You think I’m in deep shit, well look at you, you’re waist-deep!” Right? There’s no end to the possibilities. Or, they end where your calves connect with the heels. Heels are nice, I once wore a pair of heels, I am thinking of high heels, naturally, not some other persons heels. That’s crazy! Why did you think of that? But anyway, it was back when I was small, a child or something a bit bigger with a slyer grin, when I was in a time of my life where I grew several centimeters at a time. So when I wore heels I became taller than everybody else, it was just that when I took them off again I was still taller. And that was frightening in many ways, I still had fresh in my mind the time I looked up at door handles or could easily walk upright underneath a car, but then suddenly I had the voice of a Peruvian boxer and the beard of a sailor. No wait, I am thinking of some other time. It gets confusing in the end, when you get old like that. But my legs were longer, and so I crossed the road by only tilting my knee and I got an icecream or some green tea – I heard tea makes you stop growing. We’ll see about that.
by
Tora
by
Tora
by
Tora
Eve worked in a large shopping mart. Every single morning, when the sun was still a pinkish haze through the pollution -she drove the short route through the concrete maze and parked in front of the neon-flashing chaos that was the liquor store. With the click of worn, cheap shoes she strode over the vast parking lot and around to the back of the mart, where it smelled rotten and fishy. The following bit she never remembered, because she was usually too tired. But before she knew it she was seated beneath the penetrating ceiling lights of Shop Smart Super Mart, bipping groceries past the cashier and watching people fumble for their wallets.
”This swamp is disgusting!” she hollered to nobody in particular. She stood to her knees in the semi-yellow, slimey substances that covered the surface underneath the low ferns and the stalked flowers enveloping the misty wetness of the planet Schloorg. With much difficulty she managed to haul herself up from the sucking mass that bubbled with mysterious appetite. Small insects whirred and zoomed in and out of sight in the clampy mist. The sky was grey and empty, though still – mostly wet. Her shiny spaceship stood parked some way off, she had managed to steer it down on a patch of ground that didn’t immediately sink into the muddy masses below. Her cook, Flatch Estavado was unsuccessfully attempting to pick an eggplant-like vegetable from through an open window in the ship. -“Captain!” He shouted, though the fog seemed to devour most of the sound. “Captain! The- what is that?- Eew! –The roasted Uqail is ready!” He tried to shake off the pink slime that had covered his arm when the eggplant had exploded without warning.
It was at the dodgy end of Begonia lane, the lane edged with pumpkin patches and old, crooked oaks. The worn down, muddy street in the district of continuous autumn, where the crisp, dry leaves from the trees always flutter aimlessly in the wind.
In a little dip between the fields lay a brick house. It was surrounded by blooming roses, purple and white lilac and some little scarlet begonias, all this foliage, the fuzzed, uncut lawn and the house were confined by a low stone fence. A warm June sun embraced this ripe summer afternoon and covered the landscape like golden drapes. The brick house was what by size I assume you’d call a small villa, or a minuscule mansion, because it was quite a pleasurable rust red size to it. You could tell from outside that most of the wobbly old windows had white lace curtains on the inside, and traditional, clean shutters neatly bolted on to the exteriority. All in all it was a very delicious countryside home, all heartily and delicately luscious. 
Omg snow!! It's so pretty and christmassy and you know, all that.
